Barley Break

A. Hope C.

Description

An incubus. A succubus. Two human shells. Can a love last forever if the lovers can't die?Jennifer Roseberry is visiting her mother, who has been admitted into hospital. With her is Sara, her twelve year old daughter. The woman in the next bed, a well known historian, is terminally ill. She talks briefly to Sara, and then before visiting time is over, she dies peacefully.From that moment onward, Jennifer notices striking changes in her daughter. She is no longer painfully shy and awkward. Jennifer and her husband are educated, professional people; yet Sara suddenly knows things they have never heard of, far beyond the capacity of a twelve year old girl.Sara becomes friends with a girl called Tracy, and through eavesdropping, Jennifer learns both her daughter and Tracy are, in fact, succubae. Or, at least, they are possessed by such beings. With her suspicions growing, Jennifer uses a digital voice recorder to find out more about the spirit inhabiting her daughter. Desperate to bring their daughter back, through a series of conversations she is transported back to the War of the Roses, and what she learns about the past could change everything...The Barley Break is an enticingly gripping romance novel with a historical, paranormal twist from debut author C. A. Hope.

Sujets

• Historical romance

Informations

• Publié par: Troubador Publishing Ltd
• Date de parution: 02 février 2019
• Nombre de lectures: 0
• EAN13: 9781789019568
• Langue: English
• Poids de l'ouvrage: 1 Mo

Extrait

Copyright © 2019 C A Hope

The moral right of the author has been asserted.


Apart from any fair dealing for the purposes of research or private study, or criticism or review, as permitted under the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988, this publication may only be reproduced, stored or transmitted, in any form or by any means, with the prior permission in writing of the publishers, or in the case of reprographic reproduction in accordance with the terms of licences issued by the Copyright Licensing Agency. Enquiries concerning reproduction outside those terms should be sent to the publishers.


Matador
9 Priory Business Park,
Wistow Road, Kibworth Beauchamp,
Leicestershire. LE8 0RX
Tel: [phone]
Email: [e-mail]
Web: www.troubador.co.uk/matador
Twitter: @matadorbooks


ISBN 978 1789019 568

British Library Cataloguing in Publication Data.
A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.


Matador is an imprint of Troubador Publishing Lt
In memory of my father, the unique
and irreplaceable Austin Lawther
Contents
Prologue
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
PROLOGUE
June 2017

Hospitals… they were not the chillingly clinical places they used to be, Jennifer reflected tranquilly, gazing around the ward with undisguised curiosity. She had recently read a book – complete with many ill ustrations – about the early days of the NHS. The wards had been positively Victorian-looking, giving little privacy. The decor appeared dismal too, but perhaps that was because a lot of the illustrations were in black and white, she excused. She could recall having her tonsils and adenoids removed, in 1990, which seemed a long time ago now. Her ward had been described by one of the nurses as being ‘a wee bit old-fashioned’. It had consisted of two rows of approximately ten beds, dormitory-style, and in between each identical bed had been an identical locker. The beds had each had the same number of pillows, the same colour of counterpane, and bedside tables were uniformly placed. The decor had been bland and uninviting. In contrast, the ward she was visiting now consisted of a series of small rooms, each containing half a dozen beds. It was cosy, homely even, in atmosphere, and the decor was bright and cheerful.
Lying on top of a bed which was covered with a floral pink coverlet, Vi, Jennifer’s mother, lounged with the relaxed ease of one who knew nothing was seriously wrong. Secretly she half wished something had been – as long as it was nothing terminal, of course – and then she might have been able to persuade Jennifer and her husband Chas to permit her to permanently move in with them.
‘It was a stone in the bile duct which caused the pain,’ she explained with a dismissive wave of a hand, the motion displaying immaculately varnished, fearsomely long fingernails to the best advantage, whilst the light flashed from a large sapphire ring. It was the size of Princess Diana’s iconic ring, now worn with grace and dignity by the Duchess of Cambridge. If asked, Vi would always tell people it was a real sapphire. It wasn’t.
‘How can that be? Your gall bladder was removed years ago,’ queried Jennifer.
‘You can still get stones,’ Vi pronounced airily, showing off new-found medical knowledge. ‘They can become lodged in the bile duct. It’s wonderful all the technology they have nowadays,’ she said and pursed her lips into an “O” – a frequent habit which her family found either amusing or irritating, depending upon circumstances.
Somehow she could make the “O” suggest numerous things: disapproval, superiority, ill-humour, to name but a few. On this occasion she appeared smugly superior.
‘They removed the stone yesterday, just through passing a camera down my throat!’
She patted her sculptured blonde waves, flattering herself she didn’t look anything akin to a woman of pensionable years. Her hair, covered with layers of lacquer, was artificially blonde and as hard as concrete. She had retained the same luxuriously permed style since the 1980s.
‘I was really worried, Mum.’ Jennifer grasped her mother’s hand, at the same time trying to ignore the discomfort of sitting on a hard plastic, unpadded hospital chair. Her bottom felt numb, and it was digging into the backs of her knees. ‘You were an awful yellow colour, and when you collapsed with pain I thought it might be something serious.’
Inwardly she wondered if Mum was still jaundiced. Or maybe she was simply wearing a lot of makeup; she tended to apply it generously. Chas always claimed it was as thick as a pancake and likely to crack when she smiled. Also, her jaundiced colouring contrasted violently with her yellow blonde hair. Alternately, it could simply be the overhead lights. A smile suddenly swept across her face.
‘All the same, when you talk of cameras, I have a vision of someone trying to stuff a digital camera down your throat!’
She tactfully failed to mention that Chas had voiced a hope that they would do just that. It might shut her up. Vi, who was on the whole a cheerful, good-hearted woman, could also be vocal, domineering and tactless.
As Vi gave a throaty laugh, Jennifer became aware that Sara, her twelve-year-old daughter, was wriggling around on her chair in her usual ungainly fashion. Irritated, she jerked at one of Sara’s legs.
‘Sit properly, do, and get your shoe off the seat!’
The girl was sitting with one foot on her chair, arms wrapped about her knee, whilst the other leg was flung out at an angle. Why did Sara always look so awkward? She was tall and slim, obviously going to take after her father in this. But surely Chas had never, ever, looked so gawky. He always seemed so in control of his limbs. A keen tennis player, he was well coordinated. Sara was the opposite. Her arms and legs seemed to fly off in totally different directions. And she was so bashful, so gauche with strangers. She was an only child, of course, which might account for something. Jennifer wasn’t sure what.
‘She’s alright.’ Vi shook her head in reproof. Jennifer was such a perfectionist, demanding high standards from herself, and Sara too. ‘I’m lucky,’ she informed Jennifer, directing attention away from the child. ‘The poor woman in the bed next to me is not so fortunate,’ she nodded knowingly towards the next bed. It was temporarily empty, the floral counterpane turned back, showing crumpled pink sheets. ‘She’s been taken to have a scan done. Has cancer, you know.’ Vi’s mouth pursed again, to the size of a hazelnut. ‘Of the pancreas. Difficult to diagnose apparently. They’ve found it too late.’
‘How old is she?’ Jennifer’s face was a mask of compassion.
‘About forty.’
Vi was disapprovingly eyeing the woman in the opposite bed, who was lying flat on her back, snoring, making a loud, monotonous sound, her mouth wide open. Snoring was so unladylike. She had never snored… well, if she had no one had dared mention it.
‘Just a few years older than me,’ whispered Jennifer.
‘Yes, it’s so sad,’ Vi nodded gravely. ‘But her attitude is amazing. Two teenage daughters… or stepdaughters, not sure which, but I feel for them. But she is so composed. I can hardly believe it. She’s supposedly well-known, you know, but I’ve never heard of her. Marilyn Hamilton. A writer, apparently.’
‘I have heard of her. I’ve seen her books on Amazon. She writes history… I keep meaning to order one.’ Jennifer was impressed. ‘But if you say she’s composed, maybe she’s shocked, or drugged or something.’
She noticed her daughter was now sitting slumped in her chair, long thin legs sprawled out in front of her, feet splayed at right angles. Shrugging aside her irritation, she instead pictured the potential mental pain of a sick mother having to leave her child; but simultaneously she recalled the nick-name Sara’s classmates had given her – Olive Oyle. How unfortunately apt. If only the girl would learn to move gracefully.
‘I don’t know… Here she comes now.’
With undisguised interest, Vi watched as a trolley was wheeled in bearing a prostrate figure. Momentarily the invalid was obscured from view as curtains were briskly drawn about her bed. Amid the sudden activity, the woman occupying the bed opposite was suddenly wakeful, sitting up with arms folded akimbo over huge breasts, nodding knowingly towards Vi and mouthing more loudly than she ought, ‘Looks terrible.’
Equally knowingly, Vi, lips pursed yet again, gave a sage nod of her head. Her hair never moved.
Aware it was wrong to set a bad example to Sara, but eager for information, Jennifer leaned towards her mother, whispering in her ear, ‘The woman opposite… Did she tell you what they’re treating her with? She looks obese and bloated. She must be taking massive doses of steroids.’
‘I don’t know what they’re giving her. But she told me she used to be slim,’ was the whispered response.
‘Mummy, you’re whispering,’ rebuked Sara. ’You always tell me it is ill-mannered.’ Unconsciously mirroring the posture of the woman opposite, Sara too had her arms folded akimbo.
‘Hush,’ muttered Jennifer, then, seeing signs of a rebellious retort on the child’s lips, crisply added, ‘Do as you’re told.’
Mutinous, the girl watched as the curtains were pulled back from the neighbouring bed, revealing another very plump woman who was obviously a few years older than Mummy. Her hair was brown and very short. There was a stand beside her bed, with what looked like a bag of water hanging from it, and the tubes coming from the bag were strapped to her arm. Noticing her scrutiny, the woman smile